“Perhaps,” Westover assented.
The planchette began to stir itself again. “She's goin' ahead!” cried Whitwell. He leaned over the table so as to get every letter as it was formed. “D—Yes! Death. Death is the Broken Shaft. Go on!” After a moment of faltering the planchette formed another letter. It was a U, and it was followed by an R, and so on, till Durgin had been spelled. “Thunder!” cried Whitwell. “If anything's happened to Jeff!”
Jackson lifted his hand from the planchette.
“Oh, go on, Jackson!” Whitwell entreated. “Don't leave it so!”
“I can't seem to go on,” Jackson whispered, and Westover could not resist the fear that suddenly rose among them. But he made the first struggle against it. “This is nonsense. Or, if there's any sense in it, it means that Jeff's ship has broken her shaft and put back.”
Whitwell gave a loud laugh of relief. “That's so! You've hit it, Mr. Westover.”
Jackson said, quietly: “He didn't mean to start home till tomorrow. And how could he send any message unless he was—”
“Easily!” cried Westover. “It's simply an instance of mental impression-of telepathy, as they call it.”
“That's so!” shouted Whitwell, with eager and instant conviction.
Westover could see that Jackson still doubted. “If you believe that a disembodied spirit can communicate with you, why not an embodied spirit? If anything has happened to your brother's ship, his mind would be strongly on you at home, and why couldn't it convey its thought to you?”